harassment for dummies

notice, gentlemen...she's not smiling, and they're even
harassing her in italian, while wearing well-tailored suits.

which scenario do i hate more?

i cannot decide...

walking down the nyc street, minding my own damn business, i walk past a young or old or smart or dumb or successful or homeless man (because disrespect for women, apparently, crosses all color, class and education barriers) who is, as the young folks say, checking me out. i do not make eye contact. i have learned, after being here for 7 years, to never make eye contact, but i can feel his eyes graze my body...if eyes could nibble and sting, they would...reducing me to nothing so much as human, just a series of objects or (ahem) orifices for him to critique and appraise...

slimily, man in scenario #1 says:

yo, baby. look it that...hmhmmm, that's how i like it. nice and tight. what's yo digits? nice headlights. oh yeah...

blah di blah di blah...sadly, if you are a woman, you know the drill.

i bristle. i want to scream. i want to shout. i want to throw my backpack at their smug little misogynistic faces and demand that they give me their mother's telephone number so i can call her immediately and ask:

did you mean to raise a heathen with zero respect for women?

i do not do this, of course. i ignore. i proceed...seemingly unmiffed. i am an actress, after all. i am Queen and they, are not worthy of my attention. (deep down, of course, i am a ruffian peasant girl who would love nothing more than to hurl expletives at them and grind their faces into N.Y.P.D. equine dung, but i mustn't muss the hair nor disturb the crown, and the cape is on loan from Phantom.)

or, man in scenario #2 says, suavely (is suavely an actual adverb? i dunno, but you get my drift.):

hey, where's the smile? why don't you smile? i'll bet you've got such a pretty smile. oh, c'mon. why don't you give me a little smile?

ohhhh...

this.

pisses.

me.

off.

see. i get it. i'm not supposed to be as upset by this little come on because he's referring to something innocent; my smile. nothing taboo, like my bosom or bottom or whoozywhatzit, but puhleezz....maybe i'm getting a little Feminazi on you, but it's just another form of objectification, and it ticks me off.

just because our female bodies are visible...yes, we have breasts. yes, we have a butts. yes, we have a smiles that can melt the hearts of men, and yessireebobster, these jewels are foreign to you. you do not possess these miraculous female tresors, poor dear, and i understand that this makes them evermore intriguing, appealing, and all the more difficult to ignore, but...this does not make them open to public scrutiny and/or harassment. our bodies do not take requests for dates, smiles, or (ahem) otherwise from strange men on the street, in a bar, or whizzing by in their environmentally-incorrect, gas-guzzling, overcompensating-for-lack-of-something-else Hummer vehicles.

ok, ok...stepping off soapbox now. sorry.

please. just be human, and say something novel like...

hello. how are you? disgustingly humid day we're having, eh?

and try, please try, not to talk at our breasts. much as they would like to, they cannot respond.

so in my little fantasy...here's what i'd say...to mr. scenario #2:

what? am i not allowed to have a bad day? do you think life is one perpetual Crest Whitestrips commercial, and that God painted this miraculous smile on my face simply to brighten your sad, pitiful day? no, sir, i do not have a smile for you. what i do have is a Jennifer Garner-esque round-the-world-kick that will dislocate your nose from your face if you tell me to smile one more time . perhaps, i do not feel like smiling. perhaps, my dog died. perhaps, i just lost my job. perhaps, i am wearing a thong that is chafing so badly i'm rushing home to slip into some white cotton granny drawers. perhaps, i do not care that it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. perhaps, i like to think of it as a little bonus workout, burning off excess calories by scowling as i walk down the street...ignoring you . i do not have to be happy. i do not have to smile. i have the right to have a fucking bad day without an endless litany of sappy requests from you to put on my eyelet lace Pollyanna panties and bake you happy-face cupcakes, so back the fuck off!

there.

now.

i feel like smiling.

if i want you to appraise my melons,
i'll invite you over for fruit salad.

accidental bliss.

okay...so i wore a shirt, but this is about how i felt.

oh, dear readers...lest you think i'm always in the throes of despair, lamenting the size of my thighs and my spotted chin (not to be confused with spotted dick - "a dish of British extraction, it's a steamed, log-shaped suet pudding studded with currants"), you should know i had an absolutely marvelous, though jam-packed weekend that made me feel blessed from frizzy-head to calloused toe.

how could you not feel blessed when...

...at 3 am on saturday morning, you share vanilla sponge cake squishy with layers of chocolate pudding and fresh strawberries with your band members in simultaneous celebration of your last NYC gig together and b's, the piano player, bday. making you, of course, just a little regretful and weepy of your decision to quit. boo. hoo.

...or when you get to perform in a show that speaks to you, through you...the words you are lucky enough to speak are delicious, fiery morsels, and if you could eat them, you would b/c in those words passion resides and Dad always said that "what you want in life is a certain fire in your belly." but instead, you share them with the audience members and, miraculously, they get it. (there were also 3 reviewers there...let's hope they got it too. eeks.)

...or when you watch the sunset over Central Park from the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a giant butterfly kite hovers above the trees, suspended in silhouette against the buzzing, warm corona of the sun...the light, the colors, the lazy ambience so similar to those in th Monet/Manet/Renoir paintings you just passed inside. all that is missing, you think, is your parasol (and fluency in french, of course).

...or when you don a bright pink wide-brimmed hat and a flouncy white skirt that makes you feel, if even just a little bit, like a combination southern belle and ballerina. you have to tug on your shirt throughout the day because your belly keeps wanting to peek out from beneath your camisole, an impudent child who should be in bed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the glamorous grown-ups, but whatever...you fancy yourself pretty anyhow.

...or when you have dinner with friends in from Mississippi in a candlelit italian restaurant. you devour long-legged strands of al dente linguini in a simple dress of sauteed spinach and feta cheese, sip a cool glass of pinot grigio, and ride the cadence of their southern speak...a molasses and grits rollercoaster of colloquialisms and drawls.

and how could you not feel blessed when, looking out the open window of the cab as you ride over the 59th street bridge - you are sleepy, the whirring of the wheels against the pavement, the wind playing with your hair, together a strange city lullaby - you realize...

holy shit...i'm happy.

a margarita a day...

coffee break? nah. margarita break, please.

does it keep the blues away?

today

is

just

one

of

those

days.

argh.

feeling useless and aimless and directionless, waistless...whatever-less. i just don't weigh less. dammit.

i'm wondering. i desperately want to test my theory. something frozen and fruity and highly-alcoholic might very well color my blues, well...pink. at least temporarily, right?

on my lunch hour, i walked past an embarassingly colorful chain restaurant near my work that offers ginormous portions of tex mex food. the food, swimming in fluorescent orange pools of lard, did not appeal at all. what did? the little paper tent on the table beckoned me...a watermelon margarita. ole. tempted to dive in and disappear into a tequila and watermelon haze. should i? should i slip in and have a margarita on my lunch hour? surely, it would make everything seem a little better for a little while, wouldn' t it? would they know? would they smell the tequila on my breath back at the office? i could just say it was a new Demeter fragrance, "i just popped into sephora for a little spritz..."

hm?

hmm?

hmmmm???

nah i am, at heart, a goody two shoes, and work, while not particularly stimulating currently, still offers a good job, decent pay, and marvelously intelligent people that alternately challenge me to be a better person and confirm my worst suspicions...

they are all smarter than you. you, my dear, change toner. the highlight of your day is the walnut, blue cheese, beet, + baby spinach salad you eat every day for lunch. these people are changing the world. you're just eating it.

(wow. if i were dating myself, i would so break up with me. wouldn't you?)

but. it's a job, and i do not want to lose it. besides, that sort of behavior smacks way too much of a little disease called alcoholism. my family has the unique distinction of counting many of its members proficient in the art of dipsomania, but this apple is choosing to fall far from that dysfunctional tree.

so, i did not order the margarita. i bought myself a sparkly necklace with beads that match the color of my eyes (what i like to self-indulgently call amber-hazel) at a local flea market instead. and yes, i ate my requisite spinach salad. i am now sitting at my desk surrounded by brilliance incarnate, waiting for my muscles to grow, and try-try-trying to remember popeye's philosophy as it applies to me...

"i yam what i yam."

grumpy was my favorite dwarf

probably waiting for the fucking subway...pool of sweat forming betwixt his bumcheeks...

dear dear readers...i am so sorry i have been so lax lately in my blogging. i have been, suffice to say, busy with, er...life. when i first starting blogging, i resolved to write daily, but soon realized that that resolution and my unwavering commitment to that resolution was keeping me from 1. getting enough sleep and 2. living my life. and really, in the grander, what-i-want-to-be-when-i-grow-up scheme of things, that's really what this blog and my show is about...living life.

so...my blogs will probably be a little more spotty in the future. 2-3-4 times per week. but, dear reader, i do hope it's a case of quality not quantity that you look for in a Blogstress. if so...voila!

besides...who wants to do anything but suck on ice cubes and stand naked in front of the air conditioner in weather like this? my hair is frizzy, my stomach's upset, and i swear i can actually feel my pores clogging as i type this...

a little fetal zit is forming right on my chin, it will burst forth and bloom like one of grandma's roses in a matter of days...oh joy.

at least, it seems, i am not alone.

the grumpy factor

save another date for sangria + s'mores

you would look so good in that chair...there.

save the date

another size ate fundraiser
saturday, august 27
7-11pm

$10 gets ya in, free sangria while it lasts,
+ s'mores you can grill on the back patio!
featuring live music from benicio + the del toros

@ stainbar
766 grand street
williamburg, brooklyn
L to grand, 1 block west

forget tom cruise, i (heart) tom arnold

oh, the possibilities...

Tom Arnold commenting on his relationship with Roseanne Barr, in today's New York Times' Boldface Names column:

To be with a woman that you can sit and eat a gallon of ice cream with in bed is not the worst thing in the world.

a-fucking-men.

the 3 best things about my family reunion

my nephew

you can't help but feel pretty when you look at him...he does nothing but smile, smile, smile.

my niece

i taught her how to give butterfly kisses, and we put on lip gloss...

another nephew

he told me i had "good hair," and proudly showed me his long, "chapter books."

brilliant children.

family re-EWWWWW-nion weekend

i should be sleeping.

i haven't slept in about 6 days.

why?

dunno...the mind is racing....a gerbil on a treadmill...will...not....stop.

argh.

off - early early early - 6 am flight - to michigan for a family reunion tomorrow.

must sleep. must get my beauty sleep. can i lose 10 pounds overnight?

i will see family members who, i know, love me, but are also more than a wee-bit-obsessed with appearances - thinness, clear skin, and callous-free pedicured feet (none of which i have at this particular moment).

i will see family members that i have never met, or that i met when i was 8-years old. before i became a woman-obsessed. before i learned to hate my legs in shorts, before i learned to not smile too big in the family reunion photo because it made my face look too wide...

i will see family members and friends who remember my mother only as a perfectly beautiful, perfectly angelic woman. flawless, blond, long-legged and bringing home-baked pies to the garbage men on christmas eve because she felt bad that they had to empty our trash. trash that contained our great dane's sizeable...er...excrement.

in their mind she is a goddess. a goddess, not only of beauty, but of generous spirit and prize-winning tuna casserole.

i

cannot

measure

up.

i am human. my torso is longer than my legs. i am no angel. i am no goddess. i bake pies for the guys at the firehouse, but please...i don't do it for purely altruistic reasons. they're cute, for chrissakes.

so...this time...i will not try. oh sure. i will look presentable. i will brush my hair. i will moisturize my calloused feet. i already shaved my legs and packed the 'feminine shoes' (kitten heels) my grandma likes so much instead of the 'big shoes' (i.e. birkenstocks) i like so much.

but...if i want to swim in the hotel pool. i will. i will put on my swimsuit and feel the sun and wind against my skin and ignore the glances...approving, disapproving or otherwise.

and.

and. i will smile real big in the family photo. even if it means the photographer has to change to a wide-angle lens.

you deserve a...er...coronary today.

yes, yes you will.

The Worst Fast Food Choices

i think i'm going to vomit.

hard to believe i used to love this schtuff.

when i was little and living in a teensy town in michigan that matched my diminutive stature, i loved mcdonald's. perhaps loved isn't even a strong enough word. i was an advocate of mcdonald's. i lobbied for mcdonald's. it is not, i think, a small coincidence that both my name and that restaurant begin with the same letter - M. i actually wanted to work there when i grew up, thinking,

what could be better? free filet-o-fish, small fries, and a medium hi-c orange drink every day. wow. them there's the life.

we didn't have a mcdonald's in our little village for the formative years of my life, but just as i was about to turn 8, it was announced that we would, in fact, be getting our very own Mickey D's, to be constructed right across the street from the Big Boy Restaurant (we used to go there for their burgers with their "special sauce." "special sauce" my eye...it was thousand island dressing.) the joy i felt was indescribable. upon our first visit to the golden arches, i turned to my mother and said, in complete childlike earnestness:

Mom. Before we were just a town. Now that we have a McDonald's, we're a city.

ha.

i loved everything about McDonald's. the weird-ass looking Ronald (closeted gay man. who else would wear red and yellow so...glaringly?), the high-fructose corn syrup sweetened little cardboard-textured cookies shaped like the Hamburglar, the shiny red plastic seats with grooves where your bum nestled in juuuust so. they'd swivel back and forth when you kicked your brother sitting across from you for stealing your last fry.

but it's MINE!

i had my eighth birthday party there. the one picture i remember from that day is me sitting in a booth, donning a little pink monogrammed sweater, mugging for the camera, eyes wide, holding the cheeseburger in my hands and shoving it into my mouth. that kid wanted to be in pictures. i had the requisite paper crown on my head. they even took me to the back to see the 'behind the scenes.' i was pretty disappointed by the quotidian nature of it all. just a bunch of bitter high school students slapping mustard, onions, lettuce, tomato on a sesame seed bun. (is that the rhyme?) i thought they'd be all bonny and blithe like the rosy-cheeked valedictorians that worked there in the commercials.

thankfully, mom was a bit of a health food nut, so we didn't get McDonald's that frequently (we were a no-sugar cereal, no-pop kind of household) and i, after a 4-year fast food subsistence diet in college, have since revised my eating habits to all but eliminate fast food (my ass and arteries thank me). i'll admit to the occasional McDonald's sundae when i'm a bit schnockered and strolling through Times Square, weaving towards the subway, (i can't help it! the arches call my name!), but ever since they've discontinued the caramel one, what's the fucking point?

i told my mother that when i grew up the only foods i was going to feed my family were "mcdonald's and spaghetti-os."

ha.

perhaps this explains why God has kept me single and childless. my menu would have killed them.

so how come the japanese get these
hipsters and we get the creepy clown?

better belly than britney's

as i type this, a miniature statue of the Laughing Buddha gazes down at me from the top of my computer screen. beneath him is a banner i got at a yoga retreat a few winters ago that says:

you are buddha-full.

ah.

i am.

you are.

i mentally remark how funny it is that we miss the messages that sit right in front of us day after day. free. no charge. waiting patiently for us to see them, hear them, take them in. pluck them like rosepetals, rub them between our fingers, and carry the scent with us for days...

poor buddha. he must be tired. standing there for weeks w/ his arms up like that. and yet, he still smiles. ear to ear. chubby chin to chubby chest. just happy, i guess, that he finally got my attention.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder buddha's round frame and wonder if he ever felt self-conscious about his girth.

i don't think so. he's too busy laughing. loving. being. doing The Wave at some eternal sporting event.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder my woman's frame and wonder why i always feel self-conscious about my girth, my birth, hell...my worth.

i dunno. i'm too tired to think about it. too tired to create my own mantras. for tonite, i'll just follow the buddha's cue, throw my hands in the air, and laugh:

i am buddha-full.

that little round guy over there on my computer screen said so.

happy 4 o' july

happy fourth of july everyone!

in honour of our country's independence day today, i attempt to free my body and my mind from the typical penitential refrain of

don't eat that.

don't have that second margarita with the little pink umbrellas that you love so much.

don't wear your swimsuit in front of all these people.

don't let them see your calloused feet.

don't wear your big, rhinestone-y earrings that look like fireworks, they might think you're weird.

don't sing the star-spangled banner full-voice and make appropriately-placed cymbal sounds by banging the garbage can lid with your empty margarita glass.

in other words:

DON'T

HAVE

FUN.

screw it. our forefathers, after all, fought for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, dammit.

so go forth, countrymen and women. pursue The Big H.

eat hot dogs smothered in ketchup, sour cream pound cake topped with blueberries and strawberries (you patriotic eaters you!), dip your feet in the pool, run through a sprinkler, and write your name in the night sky real fast using sparklers!

and don't forget to cry during the fireworks finale when the Star-Spangled Banner is sung by a B-pop star.

----

as an afterthought - last nite, as i was giving myself a pedicure akin to an archaeological excavation (the amount of scrubbing and filing i have to do - positively aerobic), i watched demi moore in g.i. jane. the movie is about a woman who attempts to become a navy seal. why any woman would want to do this, i don't know, but she does, all the while maintaining a perfect size 6 and miraculously smudge-free mascara!!! as i watched her get harassed by mysogynists in camoflauge and get beat to a bloody pulp, i thought to myself, "hey, if she can get through that, i can finish this f-ing pedicure." just as demi was presented with her pair of little navy seal wings, my feet started to look like feet again. all those razor blades and callous-eating ointments were worth it. ah...there is no end to what us womenfolk will do for our country.

ode to a peach

quite possibly the perfect man

too hot

too sticky

to write

too much

today

but...

let me say this:

i have found my true love

in the nectar of

a perfect, chilled, ripe peach

skin

just taut enough

flesh

just tender enough

juice

just plentiful enough

for a rogue drop

to escape my mouth undetected

and descend

casanova-style

down

down

down

to the tip of

my

chin

where it

took in the majestic view

and

fell (or jumped?) helplessly

plop

into my

welcoming

decolletage.

my, what a lucky little dribble.

my, what a lucky little me.

-----

psst...i got them from freshdirect.com!